THE RECLUSE.

Meanwhile Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by no means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish that she had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late for regrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of her wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize her action by so harsh a name.

"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly through the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as they contained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly in telling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with papa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask him if I have done wrong."

According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her father for at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr. Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be the time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw no reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at her possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be able to explain if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation due to her father.

Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which she turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on the opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes. This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned, unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place for nightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So bird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have composed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane, for obvious reasons.

Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden, odorous with homely cottage flowers—sweet-williams, delicate pea blossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthorn hedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while to the left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. A sprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of this sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad, low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows, diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and under the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One often sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathing quiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it was called, from the prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy tale.

Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants, male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch as steel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who was never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor, and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessary to him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gave him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.

Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the routine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast, and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and then wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom. For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion, and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a single episode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of the Sleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.

The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips of Thorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, they were as wise as ever touching his antecedents. Then he had arrived with Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St. Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. Rose Cottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secluded spot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof, cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had lived ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting no invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures, so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone to live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made him unpopular.

The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found a kindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening did they spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was the pleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand Paynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the garden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her education had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new. For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs. Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless girl.

Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversation with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss her father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk as usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall and white-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man looked singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar garb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like a mediÆval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason Thorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns curiosity is quite a disease.

In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained the presence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from the tone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As it afterward appeared he had good reason to be.

"Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston."

Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm. The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected. There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of a prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed.

"Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise, "already!"

This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkened with suspicion.

"What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly.

"Why! That is—Mr. Tait——" began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cut her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm:

"Tait! Then you have seen him already?"

"Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone.

"Where?"

"In the church, half an hour ago."

"Did he question you?"

"He did."

"And you replied?"

"I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to the Larcher affair."

"I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair. "Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused."

Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best to be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had anticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a moment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity by a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much the girl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was too dangerous a foeman to be despised.

"We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will repeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."

"Why should I repeat it?" said Jenny, objecting to this interference, as Tait guessed she would. "There was nothing wrong in the conversation with Mr. Tait that I know of."

"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found in The Canterbury Observer," replied Hilliston dryly; "yet it would have been as well had you not done so."

"Father," cried Jenny, turning toward the old man with an appealing gesture, "have I done wrong?"

"Yes, child," he answered, with a sigh, "very wrong, but you sinned in ignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about the trial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. You repeated it to young Linton, and Mr. Hilliston tells me that all London knows the story through his book."

"I am very sorry," said Jenny, after a pause, "but I really did not know that it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of old newspapers in a garret! Surely I was justified in reading them—in telling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story."

"I don't blame you, Miss Paynton," said Hilliston kindly; "but it so happens that your father did not want that affair again brought before the public. After all, you have had less to do with it than Fate."

"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. "Good Heavens, am I to be——"

"Paynton!" said Hilliston, in a warning voice.

"I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more—no more. Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr. Tait."

Considerably astonished, the girl repeated the conversation as closely as she could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with the keenest interest, and seemed relieved when she finished.

"It is not so bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. "All you have to do, Paynton, is to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosity of these young men. They will be certain to ask him questions."

"Kerry will baffle them; have no fear of that," said Paynton harshly, "and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr. Tait."

"Am I not to speak to him?"

Her father interrogated Hilliston with a look, received a nod, and answered accordingly.

"You can speak to Mr. Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will be introduced by the vicar to Mr. Larcher. I place no prohibition on your speaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcher affair. Promise!"

"I promise. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with it."

"Say no more about it, my dear," said Hilliston, patting her shoulder. "How could you be expected to know? But now you have been warned, do not speak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of these idle young men to be gratified."

"If you assist them to learn that which had better be hidden, you will ruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture.

"Father! Ruin you?"

"Yes! It means ruin, disgrace—perhaps death! Ah!"

He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, led her to the door.

"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, and pushing her outside the door, locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in the passage, in an agony of fear and surprise. Ruin! Disgrace! Death! What was the meaning of those terrible words?